We took the scenic route in.
For an hour and a half, the only things passing by the car windows were trees that were definitely not pine and mountains that bore no resemblance to the ones that I looked at during my four years at Western Carolina University.
Yup, Upstate New York was decidedly different than what I was used to and that was the whole point of this trip. This weekend was meant to be a tour of historic baseball, starting with a ball game at Fenway Park in Boston on Sunday, and then visiting the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown on Monday. One day was 200 miles east, the next 60 miles west of our home base: Albany, NY. In previous years, our baseball trips had been to New York City, and Atlanta on different occasions. But this trip was going to be different. None of us (3 brothers and dad) had ever been to Fenway or the Hall of Fame, so this was going to be a new experience for all involved.
Fenway Park was awesome. Everything I had read about the place beforehand was dead on the money. Yes: the seats are tiny, the fans have an incredible passion for the game, the food is expensive and worth it, the Green Monster is bigger that it looks in person, and the boston accents are really funny to listen to when 37,000 of them are shouting at once. Fenway was as good as advertised.
The really special part of the trip was the Hall of Fame. Words don't really do justice to how excited I was as we drove west from Albany, heading towards a place I had only read about in books and seen on TV. The first thing that hit me when we walked in the front door was the people. Old people, young people, 3 and 4 generations of people waiting to see this hallowed place where America's past time is celebrated.
One thing about Hall of Fames: Most of them are placed terribly. Canton, eh. The basketball Hall of Fame looks like a warehouse on the side of the Mass Turnpike, and that says everything you need about the Naismith Hall of Fame. But Cooperstown is special. It is in the middle of nowhere, so the anticipation builds as you drive 90 minutes from Albany to get to it. And the town of Cooperstown itself is straight out of a Walt Whitman piece about small town America, with storefronts and old tiny ballparks running along side a one lane road, and a beautiful lake sitting just behind the line of trees across the street from the Hall of Fame.
Walking in to the building was like walking into a church in Rome or something. Knowing that you are about to see history right in front of you was enough of a thought to draw goosebumps. Everything about the place was magical. Seeing the relics from over 150 years ago depicting a game that really didn't look like the baseball I played was incredible, as well as seeing things from the Negro leagues and the dead ball era. Going through 100 years of baseball records with my 13 year old brother was cool, telling him about players that played before my great grandmother was born and relating to players that we saw yesterday in Fenway Park.
The thing about the place that brought tears to my eyes was the plaque room. One huge room shaped like a church sanctuary lined with nothing but the greatest players of the greatest game. Dimaggio, Mantle, Clemente, Gibson, Seaver, all of the players that are the giants of the game are on the walls, with nothing but their likeness in bronze and some letters stamped on steel to show of their mark on the game. And at the front, like the baptismal fount at the front of a church, was the original 5 players inducted into the Hall of Fame in 1936. Wagner, Mathewson, Ruth, Cobb, and Johnson, men who are to baseball what Old Testament heroes are to christians, stand out among the hundreds of standouts that share a room with them.
The thing that I will never forget as long as I live is walking into the plaque room and seeing all of the men on the walls, shining in the bright lights as people shuffled by marveling at their achievements. And highlighted by the way that the room was lined up were the original 5, and it overwhelmed me. The magic of the whole place just kind of washed over me, the way that a catholic must feel looking up at the Sistine Chapel, and before I could help myself, tears were rolling down my face. I imagine that I am not the first person overcome by the Baseball Hall of Fame and the magic that it possesses.
One day, after a scenic drive from Albany into Cooperstown, past the shops and the lake glistening just out of sight, my kids will be overcome by the magic of a place that my dad shared with me. With that first glimpse into the plaque room, the tradition of passing down the Hall of Fame from father to son will continue as another lover of the greatest game marvels in it's majesty.
